She's Welcome to Take Charge of Me
by Lasso the Moon
Summary: 1923. The Honorable Evelyn Napier and Lady Mary Napier consummate their marriage. Can be thought of as a sequel to Not a Vain Man. Rated M for reasons.


He had barely carried her over the threshold when they crashed into each other again. The kiss was like none they had shared during their engagement—ardent but controlled, and of course discreet as they could never be _seen_—but frantic, demanding, passionate. Her fingers brushed his scalp and his arms drew her closer still, never wanting to leave her side, not now not when this was real, when they were _here_. Evelyn Napier, the family friend, the ever dependable Viscount Branksome's boring boy, had somehow gotten Mary Crawley to fall in love with him.

Her hands had somehow found their way to his chest, and had discarded of the jacket of his suit and were now making short work of his waistcoat. The actions themselves were so mesmerizing that he was at a loss for a moment before leaning down and pressing his lips to the exposed skin of her neck, smiling at the sigh it elicited. With each brush of his lips came another airy sigh, and he then tested his tongue on the smooth, almost porcelain-like skin of her neck, to which he was met with a moan of pleasure. He continued tasting even as she managed to peel off his shirt, which joined the jacket and waistcoat in a haphazard pile on the floor of their hotel room.

His lips were pressed to her jaw when she suddenly stepped back from him and gave him a look that sent his heart pounding into oblivion and garnered a very prominent reaction elsewhere. Just yesterday he had been blushing at the thought of this—part of him did still tremble when he had never touched a woman before besides a kiss or a handshake. But now, he simply wanted to love her. He wanted her to feel as fulfilled as he would when this was over—he wanted to be _enough_ for her. He swallowed as first went the dress, leaving the corset, the knickers, and the stockings. His hazy blue eyes watched everything until it was too much and his lips were on hers, pleading, scorching. One of his hands drifted to her cheek and the other hunted her breast, and as she whimpered he stroked her, fascinated by the effect that he was having on her.

He paused only when her hand brushed his waistband, shuddering as it wandered lower. "Mary…" was the only thing he got out before she took his hand and led him to the bed—their bed, the thought sent his heart pounding again—and sat down on the edge before him.

He swallowed and with the tenderest of smiles, she brushed his cheek and whispered, "I'll lead you through this, darling, don't worry." She then pulled him down for another sweltering kiss, her tongue rubbing his as he slipped her lip between his. He broke away for air and then knelt down before her, meticulously drawing back her stockings and pressing kiss after kiss onto her perfect skin. The little gasps she made in response drove him mad, and the kisses grew more searing as he shifted to the other leg.

He could feel himself hardening and when his hand met her knickers, they were damp. "Mary? Please?" he murmured, begging permission, his voice trembling.

An exuberant nod and a "Yes" answered his plea, and he stood and kissed her again, the pair easing themselves back onto the bed. He tried to undo the corset and failed miserably, making her laugh as she removed it for him.

"Oh God…" he breathed in awe. "You're so, so beautiful…" Words failed the amateur poet and he shook his head in wonder, smiling at her pleased expression. Reverently he dipped his head down and marked her skin with kisses, each one prompting a breathy moan. He realized that she had freckles—perfect imperfections—and felt as if he were exploring a map, discovering new territory, but also as if he were in a house of worship, which was why each kiss, each caress was so admiring, almost pious. When he finally reached her knickers, he removed them and then tasted, timidly at first, but when he saw that it was pleasing her so, he grew determined, and his strokes grew more certain. Her hands grasped his hair as he worked faster and she cooed his name, soft at first and then like a mantra. To see her come undone like this brought him closer to his own release, and when she finally had hers he watched in silent fascination before kissing her in adulation.

She took his face in her hands and he grinned as he knelt beside her. "I thought I told you _I_ would lead," she reminded him, raising an eyebrow, but the façade melted almost immediately and she was laughing.

His exuberant grin shifted to a cheeky one, and he answered just as seriously, "Sorry, milady. You're quite welcome to take charge."

The music of her laughter filled his ears again before she kissed him. He found himself lying on his back only a moment later, with her looming above him—like a painting, like some goddess with hair unbound, breasts revealed. He reached out again and fondled her, and when she moaned it only drove him mad. "Mary?" he asked, his lips against her neck by now.

She knew exactly what he was asking, and sunk down over him, and they both gasped. He didn't want to lose himself too soon, not until he could again do the same for her—and then all coherent thought left him as she began to rock her hips above him. His hands found her waist and he gazed up at her in unveiled love as he thrust up into her once they had found a suitable rhythm. "God…" he breathed, closing his eyes for a moment, only a moment, as he reveled in the sensation that being inside of her brought. "Mary..." he uttered her name like a prayer. She was so warm, and tight and…

They had shifted and now he was above her, and his pace increased as her legs wrapped around him, and he had to grab the headboard to keep himself steady, but he couldn't, and _God, _her _hands_, carving patterns across his back as she sobbed into his shoulder in ecstasy and then he gave one last thrust and collapsed beside her, where her arms immediately looped around him as he stifled his own cry in her neck.

"Mrs. Napier…" he murmured, still attempting to catch his breath as his hand ran over her leg ( why was it now that he couldn't keep his hands from her? ).

"Mr. Napier," she hummed in response, and they both laughed.

"Thank you…" he added after a moment, his eyes seeking hers as he took her hand and kissed it tenderly. "For choosing me, for giving me a—"

Her lips cut him off before he could say the word 'life', and when they broke apart, she answered, "Thank you for helping me live again."

That night he did not dream of the war.


End file.
